


winding threads

by uzumae



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Character Study, M/M, Mentions of Death, oikawa and akaashi as modern gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28197192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uzumae/pseuds/uzumae
Summary: And when Oikawa pulls them forward, Akaashi wonders if this is what humans see when they are led by Oikawa’s gift. An ambition so beautiful that it compels them to follow.At a crevice in the universe, beneath a colorless sky, a young god weaves a thread.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	winding threads

**Author's Note:**

> cw for mentions of death

At a crevice in the universe, beneath a colorless sky, a young god weaves a thread.

With careful fingers, he carves into existence the fabric of an ambition, a desire, a yearning. Blue for souls who weep in achievement; purple for those who seek majesty. A bright, blazing red, resilient in its pursuit. Colors and patterns and hopes, bound together with painstaking precision. And from this, a soul’s string is born.

The young god’s hands are beautiful and lithe. Through millennia of practiced perfection, they’ve brought forth an accuracy that remains unchallenged, as if every needle they’ve held had plunged into the skin and tore out a forced talent, always hungering for more to give. So please don’t look too closely, his hands whisper, for you might stumble across wounds that won’t heal, scars that won’t fade. A price paid in devotion.

He weighs the string in his hand, pulling it across his lap. Gently, he traces the life that it will lead, wondering of things that may come to be, and smiles to himself.

 _You will yearn for great things_ , he says to it. _This much, I can give to you._

And when he releases it, he does so with care, watching fondly as it unravels upon its soul.

A distance away, another god observes the routine action with a pained gaze. He eyes the deep lines across the other god’s hands, carved into the bone and only visible beneath the brightest star. He eyes the beauty of the string released, along with its striking fragility, before turning his head to stare at his own hands.

Silently, he curls his fingers into his palms, closes his eyes, and bows his head.

* * *

When Akaashi opens his eyes, he feels the brush of a soft, thin material against his cheek. Glancing to the side, he discovers the thread that beckons him, fraying and unfurling, and follows its path dutifully.

The setting is rather mundane. An old building nestled within a bustling office district, a home to many tired workers in a fast-paced corporate world. Deep into the night, only a few lights are left visible through the windows, artificial stars blinking bright and fading fast. As he steps forward into a desolate-looking office floor, he spots a single desk light by the corner amidst the darkness. It flickers once, twice, before weakly succumbing.

A man is resting face down on his desk, limp against folded arms. An empty mug of coffee is tipped across a pile of paperwork. Standing above him, another god watches on.

“Oikawa-san,” Akaashi nods, greeting him politely as he approaches.

The god looks up, face stretched into a handsome grin, but his eyes are not smiling, “C’mon Keiji-chan, no need to be so formal. We’ve known each other for thousands of years.”

Akaashi presses his lips together, “In passing, yes.”

The silence returns like an old friend, dense between them. They don’t meet often, and when they do, it’s never for pleasant occasions. Akaashi follows the path of the old string to where the end lies coiled around the unconscious man’s little finger.

“Is he dead?” Oikawa says, voice imperceptible.

“Yes.”

“How did he die?”

Akaashi bends slightly to lift the limp string into his hold. It is his duty, he reminds himself, “It seems that he had a heart attack while he was working late into the night. I believe he overworked himself into poor health.”

A long sigh falls from Oikawa’s frame as he swivels to face Akaashi, placing his hands on his hips, “Aw, I worked super hard on this one too. His wife is going to be crushed. Did you know that they’re expecting a child?”

“No, I did not,” Akaashi replies. Between his fingers, he caresses the string and strokes the life woven into it, a piece of something divine. “What was his dream?”

Then Oikawa reaches forward, hand curling around Akaashi’s own, and he nearly jumps from how tender the touch feels. Oikawa’s hand is smaller than his but still engulfs him as it wraps around the string in his hold. The hands of a god are precious, precious things. Akaashi flinches as if burned, and Oikawa smiles.

“He dreamt of giving his family a good life,” he says carefully, for he remembers every single life that he has gifted. “It’s an earnest ambition.”

“Yes.”

Oikawa’s grasp falls away heavy, “It’s a shame. It may not seem like it, but these sort of simple, heartfelt ambitions takes a lot of care to plant and take form.”

“I’m sorry,” Akaashi says almost impulsively.

“Don’t be,” a beat of hesitation, “It’s not your fault.”

Akaashi turns to the string in his hold, adjusting it to lie between his thumb and forefinger. Quietly, he presses onto it, thinks of scars on pretty hands and smiles brimming with hope, and within a fleeting heartbeat, the string snaps. His job here is finished.

“Well, that’s that,” Oikawa concludes, eyes still frozen upon the lifeless string between Akaashi’s fingers, a clean cut across the middle.

“Yes,” he answers and tries for a small, meek smile. “It was nice to see you.”

Akaashi doesn’t expect a response—it wouldn’t make sense for the other to return the sentiment. After all, it’s never a good sign when these two gods meet. For this he finds himself apologetic, almost.

And yet, Oikawa angles his head to the side with a hint of warmth in his teasing expression, “It’s nice to see you too, Keiji-chan.”

They don’t utter goodbyes or wishes to see one another again because they both know they will eventually, and once again, it will not be a joyful celebration.

As Akaashi turns to leave, he rubs his hands together absently. His fingers are long but not graceful, strong but not calloused. They’re neat, rigid, and precise, made to slice and severe, over and over again. When he thinks of marred, beautiful hands that have spent centuries in creation, he wonders what his own hands are worth. The hands of a god are said to be precious gifts, but how is it a gift to be tasked with loss?

* * *

The next time they meet is an encounter blanketed by the noise of furious arguing.

“Yo, Keiji-chan!” Oikawa waves before narrowly dodging a mug that flies past his cheek and bursts into pieces against the wall. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“It has. I hope you’ve been well,” Akaashi says, his usually soft voice strained to rise above the shouting from the couple between them.

“Of course I’ve been. Stress isn’t good for a handsome face like mine.”

Quietly, Akaashi muffles the tiny laugh that falls from his lips, though he finds there is no need to with how loud the humans’ ongoing argument grows. It’s a messy affair—the woman has tears streaming down her cheeks as the man heatedly throws his belongings into a small suitcase. Beside Oikawa, the coffee from the thrown mug drips pathetically down the wallpaper.

“I should’ve known,” Oikawa shrugs and steps closer to him. “Celebrity couples don’t last very long, do they?”

Akaashi wouldn’t know. He isn’t as attuned to human behavior as the other god is. Instead, he offers a short nod and turns to find the soul he’s been summoned for.

“I guess I just didn’t expect it’d get to the point where I’d meet you again, Keiji-chan.”

To their left, the man slams the suitcase shut. In a fiercely passionate bout of anger, he yanks the ring off his ring finger, flings it against the floor, and yells at the woman in finality—something about being impossibly difficult to love. The two gods observe as the woman crumples to the floor, sobbing into her hands as the man flings the door shut, suitcase in hand.

Slowly, Akaashi bends to pick up a part of the faded string from where it lies tangled in a pile, leading up to the woman’s finger. As if part of their private routine, he asks, “What was her dream?”

Oikawa hums for a moment then claps his hands together, “Let’s make this a game, shall we? How about you guess what sort of ambition you’ll be shattering this time, and if you guess correctly, I’ll take you out for dinner!”

How morbid, Akaashi thinks to himself. Moreover, gods have no need to consume human food whatsoever. Still, that incandescent smile urges him to comply, and he finds himself somehow amused.

“Was it love?” Akaashi offers, only for Oikawa to shake his head. He tries again, “Marriage?”

“Acceptance,” Oikawa corrects, gesturing towards the string in his hand at the brink of severance. “It was her hope to find someone who would accept her as she is.”

“Ah,” he responds and watches as the color begins to rapidly vanish from the material in his grasp, drained and chased away.

“Although I suppose that since you’re here, this means that she’ll be giving up on that dream now,” Oikawa says, lifting another piece of the string and twirling it between his fingers delicately. “She had such a pretty color.”

Akaashi opens his mouth, an apology already taking shape within his throat, but closes it once more when he realizes that Oikawa isn’t looking for one. Human dreams and ambitions are surprisingly fragile things, regardless of how strong the other god weaves them to be. This, Akaashi knows best. He’s spent a deity’s lifetime governing over failed aspirations, collecting a multitude of _almost-theres_ and _could’ve-beens_. Some things are simply meant to fall apart.

As usual, he encloses the string with his thumb and forefinger, and the thin line snaps in half without much fanfare. A few steps away, the woman continues to wail from her spot on the floor.

“Until next time then,” Oikawa remarks, hands in his pockets as he turns to leave. His eyes are clouded over with an emotion akin to determination, a trace of dissatisfaction. Akaashi aches to tell him that some futures are inevitable, that some roads lead to dead ends.

Instead, he says, “Yes, until next time.”

* * *

War-zones are by far the least preferable scenarios to find himself in, Akaashi decides, encircled by corpses littered with bullet wounds and missing limbs. The pungent stench of rotting flesh wafts into his nose as a bomb detonates in the distance. He scrunches his nose in thought. It’s a busy day for him today.

It is no surprise that he happens across Oikawa again in this setting. Some soldiers have grand ambitions as well, each one crafted by this particular god. Not to mention the civilians caught in the crossfire.

It’s a gruesome scene in more ways than one. Akaashi stands amidst a field of dead bodies and severed strings, piles of knotted, twisted ends cut short, vibrant shades fading into a muted color of calamity. Not too far from him, Oikawa finds himself in a similar position, head tilted towards the sky as he positions himself in a graveyard of his own creation. It almost seems as if he’s mourning.

Gingerly, Akaashi examines as Oikawa reaches for one of the many weary souls. His hands, precious hands, falter as they come close before retracting away. It is then that he turns to face Akaashi with a forced smile, concealing the frustration that hides beneath. But Akaashi knows him.

“You look unhappy to see me.”

“Well, of course I am, Keiji-chan,” Oikawa laughs faintly, guise unfurling but only barely. “Do you have any idea how much time and effort I put in forming every one of these, only for you to snip away at them?”

It’s a playful remark—because apparently they’ve known each other long enough for that, even as they stand among such carnage—but Akaashi sighs heavily, “It is not within my jurisdiction to decide who falls short and who doesn’t.”

“I know that, but _still_ ,” he whines.

“If you’re so upset by this, then why do you do it?”

Oikawa blinks, tilting his head, “What do you mean?”

Akaashi glances at the bloodshed that surrounds them, the innumerable threads of lost dreams spread throughout the setting, and thinks of the fond smile he once saw when they were both just young gods. Of a god so unbearably burdened with such boundless hope himself that he would cut into his own hands if it meant that he could bleed talent in his providence.

So he says, “Why do you pour so much of yourself into every string you craft? It doesn’t matter how hard you try. Humans will always fall short in one way or another.”

“Sure, but it’s important.”

“What is?”

Oikawa straightens his back, gaze fixed upon the distance where the sun sinks below the horizon. The typical golden hues of the sky have grown stained with rising smoke as the battle dims beneath the night.

“Pride and ambition. It’s important to have that sort of thing. Who cares how worthless it may seem to others? What matters is having something precious to strive towards,” Oikawa pauses and his eyes sharpen thoughtfully. “People need this. And I want to grant them that—whether they succeed or fail, I want to understand each soul deeply enough to draw out their full capacity.”

“I’m sorry you had to meet me then,” Akaashi says, hands tangled behind his back.

Yet Oikawa merely laughs before hopping over a few bodies until he’s right in front of Akaashi, the breeze of his laughter fanning against his cheeks. Softly, he extends his hands to unravel Akaashi’s own pair from behind his back, cradling them in his hold with all of his hidden scars and graceful fingers. Aren’t we just so similar, his actions speak.

“The funny thing is,” he says, a breathless smile so effortlessly adorned, “I suppose I find myself drawn to our meetings every now and then.”

“Oh,” says Akaashi, heat rising into his cheeks as he curls his fingers inwards, only to touch the other’s skin, warm and welcoming.

Oikawa brings their hands lower before gesturing towards the path on their right, “Don’t we still have a few other souls to look at?”

Akaashi nods, “Yes, I believe so.”

And when Oikawa pulls them forward, Akaashi wonders if this is what humans see when they are led by Oikawa’s gift. An ambition so beautiful that it compels them to follow.

* * *

There exists a myriad of ways that dreams die, and it is not always a literal death.

This, Akaashi learns time and again. As he has done so countlessly, faithfully, he arrives at where he is assigned to collect his tasks. There had been a time, once, when he wondered why he has to be the one to take, why he cannot be the one to give and fulfill, why he is so helplessly different from another. _The_ other. But it is not his place to ask, so he suppresses such thoughts.

There is a boy on the ground. He writhes in pain amidst a sea of concerned gazes, eyes scrunched tight with sweat and tears, hands clutched desperately around his knee. Surrounding him, the crowd wavers with anxiety. And blended into the audience across from him, Akaashi finds Oikawa once more.

He blinks and discovers the fellow god standing beside him now.

For a moment, the silence flickers between them as they stand over the scene. The players huddle close, and the camera reels. This is what they are meant to do, right? Gods who watch over mortals’ unravelings, never to interfere?

“It’s over for him, isn’t it?” Oikawa says, as if Akaashi’s presence alone is not a sufficient indication of endings bound to come.

“Yes.”

Oikawa sighs, “Ugh, I was really rooting for him, you know.”

Akaashi finds a small smile budding on his lips, a twinge of regret, “You always do, for all of them.”

“Yes, but _this one_ ,” Oikawa starts, and Akaashi looks over his companion fondly. _This one_ , he always says, _this one was different_. _I know because I made them, you see. Every one of them. No, this one_ — “He dreamt of going pro. It was such a fragile little dream. When he was younger, I had to check up on him a few times to make sure it didn’t shatter. He worked so hard every day on his own strength. I saw.”

Akaashi nods in agreement but says nothing. Beyond their reach, the boy is carried off on a stretcher as the crowd watches on. It’s a familiar sight.

The boy’s string flutters into view between them then, fraying at the edges as it unfurls itself across their laps. Oikawa places a tender touch against his fading creation before retracting his hand, and the action whispers of a sort of acceptance, if only a fleeting one.

“You will try again,” says Akaashi, “won’t you?”

“I always will.”

When the string snaps, a strident chime echoes between them. The boy’s face fades from view. Above, the gods remain hidden amongst the hushed crowds.

“I don’t understand you, Oikawa-san.”

Oikawa chuckles softly, eyes fixed upon the fractured dream, “Does that scare you?”

“A little,” Akaashi replies. And he averts his eyes, “But I want to—understand.”

“Why is that?”

Akaashi contemplates this and stares at him for a while. There are calluses on the other god’s hands from thousands of years spent forming thread after thread for every single soul born into the world. A craft perfected not by gift but through tenacity. A god born talentless yet still destined to rule.

“I know a deity who inspires joy with his mere presence alone, and another who commands strategic victory with a single glance,” he starts, eyeing Oikawa’s hands. Around them, the crowd slowly rises as the game’s rhythm returns, silhouettes encircling those whom they cannot see. “But I’ve never met any other like you who’s put this much care into what they do for humans.”

The praise radiates in Oikawa’s form as he hums in amusement, “It’s what I’m created to do. In a way, it’s my own dream for humanity.”

Akaashi pauses, and the fragile piece of string in his hand quivers. _Then is this what I am created to do?_

“What about you, Keiji-chan?”

“I am only capable of taking things away from humans,” he says slowly.

“That isn’t what I’m asking you.”

Akaashi turns to face him and it’s almost like the first time he’d seen him, eyes bright and lustrous. Perhaps it is strange for a being like him that is so strikingly different to find comfort in the other. Oikawa leans in closer, gently, and his next words whisper beneath his own skin. In a soft voice, as the crowds cheer for the final point, he asks quietly.

“What is your dream?”

* * *

At a crevice in the universe, beneath a colorless sky, a young god weaves a thread.

A distance away, another god watches on, trembling fingers knotted together behind his back. These fingers will one day learn to severe and bring about endings, for such is his purpose. But as they stand with nothing and everything before them, he observes the other silently, mesmerized.

The young god smiles at this fragile presence, and his heart rises to meet the distance between them.

 _You will yearn for great things_ , he says. _This much, I can give to you._

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! comments and thoughts are greatly appreciated <3
> 
> you can also find me on twitter  
> [https://twitter.com/uzumaeee](https://twitter.com/uzumaeee/status/1340723550219431936?s=20)


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